


12 Ways To Say I Love You

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clexa Secret Santa 2018, F/F, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 22:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: A love story in 12 vignettes.





	12 Ways To Say I Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Teroe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/gifts).



**1.**

Lexa kept her eyes closed, staying as still as she could for as long as she could. She itched to move, and she kind of needed to pee, but she could hear the scratching of Clarke's pencil, or maybe it was charcoal today, against paper, and she didn't want to ruin the moment that Clarke was trying to capture.

She would wait for Clarke to finish before opening her eyes, stretching and yawning as if she'd just woken up. She suspected Clarke knew the truth, but she never said a word, and neither did Lexa. They both liked the illusion too much to pull back the curtain and reveal it for what it was.

So Lexa kept her eyes closed and her breathing slow and steady, just as she had many mornings before, and just as she would continue to do for as long as Clarke saw fit to make her the subject of her early morning sketching sessions.

It was a privilege to be her muse.

* * *

**2.**

"Don't forget your lunch," Clarke said, curling Lexa's fingers around the handle of the bag and pressing it to her chest before pressing her lips to Lexa's. "And don't forget to _eat_ it, either."

Lexa flashed a sheepish smile. It wasn't that she _meant_ to skip lunch as often as not... it was just that things at work got so hectic and by the time she realized that lunchtime had come and gone, she worried that she would ruin her appetite for dinner. Sometimes she brought the same lunch to work three days in a row before it actually got eaten.

"I won't," she said. 

"Promise?" Clarke asked, eyebrows curving upward. 

"Promise," Lexa said, drawing an X over her heart and stealing another kiss before making her way out the door.

And because she never broke a promise she made to Clarke, at noon on the dot she unzipped the lunch bag and lifted the lid... and out popped a piece of paper that had been folded like an accordion. In the center was a ridiculous line drawing that Lexa thought was supposed to be Clarke. The stick-figure arms stretched out for feet in either direction, long enough that she could have wrapped them around herself if she wanted to... and clearly that was the intention, because along the bottom there were instructions:

Step 1. Insert Tab A into Slot B

And sure enough, one hand the end of the long, long arms was labeled A and the other B, and slit so that they could be hooked together to make a big circle. 

Step 2. Repeat As Needed.

Clarke had folded up a hug and packed it in her lunch. Lexa wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry... so, very quietly so as not to draw anyone else's attention, she allowed herself a moment to do both.

* * *

**3.**

It wasn't that Clarke _hated_ sports. She just didn't really understand them... or the appeal of them. What was so enthralling about watching people kick or throw or bounce a ball? Did it really matter which team did the thing with the ball better than the other, in the grand scheme of things?

Lexa wasn't a sports _fanatic_ , but she was a fan, and most of the time Clarke didn't mind having some time to herself while Lexa watched the game to catch up on work, or reading, or art, or even just to take a nap (although depending on how heated the game got and whether Lexa had people over, sometimes that was easier said than done). 

Sometimes, though, Clarke couldn't help feeling left out, like she was missing out on something that she _should_ enjoy, because everyone else seemed to. 

"You're hovering," Lexa said, not taking her eyes from the screen. "Did you need something?"

"How do you even know who's in charge?" Clarke asked. 

Lexa glanced back at her, then back at the screen. "What do you mean?"

"Like who's got the ball." 

Lexa laughed. "I know that you know there's no ball in hockey." 

"Ohhh," Clarke said, widening her eyes in feigned surprise. "This is icepuck? Not sportsball?"

Lexa snorted and shook her head, then pushed herself up and grabbed Clarke, pulling her over the back of the couch and settling her in her arms. "What if I told you the captain of the red team and the captain of the blue team are married and have an adorable baby together?"

Clarke tipped her head back against Lexa's shoulder. "Seriously?"

"Yup."

" _Now_ you're speaking my language," Clarke said with a grin.

* * *

**4.**

Clarke jumped when Lexa's hand landed lightly on her shoulder, and she tried to hide the fact that she was shivering as she looked up at her. "Come on," Lexa said softly, her eyes warm and her expression soft. "Bed."

"It's not bedtime," Clarke said. "It's—"

"It's _your_ bedtime," Lexa said. She brushed the back of her fingers over Clarke's forehead. "And time for some Tylenol while we're at it." 

Clarke knew better than to argue. She let Lexa chivvy her off to bed, putting her in her comfiest pajamas and tucking her into a nest of pillows and blankets. She took the medicine that Lexa set in front of her, and chased it down with a bowl of chicken soup and some toast. By the time she was finished, Clarke wasn't objectively any less sick than she had been when she'd been staring glassy-eyed at her laptop downstairs, but she already felt a million times better.

* * *

**5.**

Lexa came up from the basement, the box of (hopelessly tangled) Christmas lights propped on one hip as she tried to brush cobwebs from her sweater. She went into the living room and found Clarke kneeling next to the box of ornaments, one in each hand as tears filled her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Lexa asked, setting the box down and crouching next to her. As soon as she did she knew exactly what was wrong: Clarke wasn't holding two ornaments. She was holding one ornament that was in two pieces. 

"Shh," Lexa said. "It's all right. We'll fix him." She took the pieces carefully from Clarke and found that they matched up almost perfectly; there was only one little chip missing, and a little bit of paint in the right shade would cover that up if Clarke was really bothered by it. "Look," Lexa said. "See?"

But Clarke's eyes were too blurred with tears to focus, so Lexa just handed her a box of tissues while she took the ornament to the table and went to find the right glue to put it back together. "Tell me again about Spot."

Clarke sniffled and blew her nose. "Spot the Wonder Sheep," she said. She stood close enough that Lexa could feel the heat of her body as she carefully applied glue to one edge of the break. "We went to one of those paint your own pottery places, me and my dad. I was making something for my mom – I don't even remember what now – and he decided to paint an ornament. So we made them, and a week later went back to pick them up. Mine went under the tree, but my dad pulled out his ornament, all proud, to show my mom, and she looks at it and says, 'Jake, why is the sheep brown?' And he looked at her, then looked at the ornament, then back at her, and said, 'Oh, yeah, I guess that makes more sense, huh? That the shepherd would have a sheep... I just assumed it was his sheepdog.' So we named him Spot the Wonder Sheep: The Sheep We All Wonder About." 

Lexa smiled up at her and took her hands away, revealing the once again whole ornament, Spot reunited with his master. "Once the glue is dry, we'll make sure he gets a place of honor on the tree. Until then, think you can help me with these lights?"

She took Clarke trying to crush the air from her lungs as a yes.

* * *

**6.**

"Do you want to talk about it?" Clarke asked.

"No," Lexa said. "I—no."

So Clarke took her hand instead, and led her upstairs to bed, unfastening buttons and sliding down zippers, slipping hooks from their eyes and rolling elastic out of its dug-in grooves. "Face down," she said as she eased Lexa down onto the bed.

Lexa did as she was told, and Clarke brushed a tangle of hair away from her face to press a kiss to her cheek before getting to work, kneading and digging where the knots were the worst until Lexa groaned as tension she'd held all day and probably longer released. 

Clarke worked her way down her back and over her hips and thighs, and with each unknotted muscle she felt Lexa relax a little more, felt her surrender... 

... and if, when she was soft and pliable as clay in Clarke's hands, she decided to express her gratitude in an equally physical way, well... who was Clarke to argue?

* * *

**7.**

Lexa came around the curve in the path, her footsteps dragging because as much as she loved her sister – in spirit if not in blood – when she came to see her, she wanted to see _her_ , not a cold piece of granite that marked her too short life and unnecessary death. She was surprised to see that there was someone already there, and she quickened her steps because no one came here, ever, not to this distant corner of the cemetery. Which meant the most likely explanation was that it was some punk kid up to no good, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Not on her watch. Not to Anya. Not today.

"Hey!" she shouted. "Hey, get—"

She stumbled to a stop when she saw the flash of startled blue eyes in a pale face framed by golden hair, all of them more familiar to her than any other had ever been, or ever would be, now that Anya was gone and the details of her were starting to fade. 

Lexa's eyes pricked with tears and she blinked them back. "What are you doing here?" It came out sounding like an accusation, and maybe it was, a little. Clarke had barely known Anya; she'd died – been killed – not long after they met. 

Clarke darted a quick glance down, and Lexa followed her gaze, seeing a pile of old, desiccated flowers and weeds at her feet. "I thought you would be later," she said, her voice tinged with guilt. "I wanted to clean things up before you got here. Today is hard enough for you without you beating yourself up over not getting here as often as you'd like. I thought I would be gone before you got here." She paused, glancing at the tidy plot, then stooped to pick up the collected debris. "I'll go."

Lexa's eyes swam and her limbs felt leaden. Clarke was already past her when she finally managed to gasp, "Wait."

Clarke stopped, looked at her. 

"You can stay," Lexa said, "if you want to." Then she shook her head a little and swallowed. "Please stay."

Clarke set down the dead foliage again and reached for Lexa's hand. "Of course."

* * *

**8.**

"You did the right thing," Lexa said, for the third or tenth or hundredth time, and Clarke knew she was right. In her head, she knew. In her heart, though... or whatever part of a person it was that felt it when it seemed like the entire world had turned on you... not so much.

"I ruined his career," Clarke said. "Maybe. Probably."

"No," Lexa said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the fog and make Clarke look at her. Her jaw was set and her eyes narrowed, but behind the anger – and Clarke knew the anger wasn't directed at her, but at everyone who had looked at her the same way and meant it – there was softness and understanding. "Clarke, you didn't ruin his career. _He_ did. It's _his_ actions that he's being punished for, not yours."

"If I hadn't said anything..."

"Then he would keep getting away with it," Lexa said. "And yes, he's a good doctor, and he would help people. But what about the ones that he would hurt?"

"I know," Clarke said. "I know. I just..."

"You did the right thing," Lexa said. Again. And she would keep saying it until Clarke believed it. Because no matter how many times Clarke questioned herself, no matter how much her confidence wavered, Lexa never stopped believing in her. 

"Can we talk about something else?" Clarke asked.

Lexa pulled her into her arms and cradled her against her body, and Clarke took what felt like her first full breath today. She leaned her forehead against the curve of Lexa's neck and closed her eyes as Lexa's long fingers sank into her hair. Lexa's lips brushed her forehead, and Clarke looked up to see her lips curving into a soft smile. "We don't have to talk at all."

* * *

**9.**

Lexa hated pretty much everything about traveling for work. She hated the hassle of airport security and rental cars and hotel check-ins that never seemed to go smoothly. She hated sleeping in a bed that wasn't hers, and even more than that she hated that she was the only one in it. She hated calculating time zones to try to figure out if it was safe to call Clarke or not, and hated when she got it wrong and woke her up in the middle of the night, or interrupted her in the middle of her day, or missed her entirely.

She hated the constant battle to be taken seriously, because she was young and female and it didn't matter that she knew her shit better than anyone because she had to, that she had to prove herself over and over again to new people. 

She hated red-eye flights with screaming babies (it wasn't the baby's fault, or even the parents – really she hated that she wasn't allowed to scream along with them) and chatty seatmates and manspreaders. 

There was only one thing Lexa didn't hate about traveling for work: coming home. Because no matter when she got home – even if it was the middle of the day – Clarke always left the outside light on for her, like a candle in a window to welcome a soldier back from war, or a lighthouse to guide a ship to safe harbor. 

No matter how far she'd gone or how long she'd been away, the light was on to signal that everything was all right now. She was home.

* * *

**10.**

Clarke grabbed her keys. "I'll be back soon," she called over her shoulder as she shrugged on her coat. "And I won't be mad if you start making dinner without me."

Lexa laughed, her head popping up where she'd been sprawled on the couch reading. "Where are you going?" she asked. 

"Art store," Clarke said. "I ran out of—"

"On the table," Lexa said. 

Clarke stopped. "What's on the table?"

"You ran out of that very specific shade of blue that is the only acceptable blue for the sky," Lexa said. "I was down that way yesterday so I picked some up for you."

Clarke went to the table and wondered how she'd missed the fact that there was a bag from her favorite art supply sitting there. She didn't remember seeing it at all, but if she had, she'd probably assumed it was left there from some other trip, empty, even though they were usually pretty good about keeping things tidy around the house. Or Lexa was, and Clarke had learned to be. 

She opened the bag and inside were at least half a dozen tubes of paint, including two of the exact blue that she needed. There were also a few brushes and a new sketchbook. She looked over at Lexa, bewildered. "How...?"

"You mentioned last weekend that you were getting low," Lexa said. "I know it's your space, and I try to stay out of it, but I needed a Sharpie and somehow they all seem to end up in there no matter where they started out, and I saw you were low on a few other colors and some of your brushes were getting a little ragged, so I wrote it all down just in case, and..." She shrugged. 

Clarke set down the bag and went over to the couch, wrapping her arms around Lexa and kissing her thoroughly. "I guess this means I'm going to have to start dinner after all?"

Lexa laughed. "Maybe," she said. "But not just yet."

* * *

**11.**

"Marry me," Clarke said. She didn't mean to say it; it just came out. For a second, she thought maybe Lexa hadn't heard her, that she could pretend she'd never said it.

Not that she didn't mean it. Not that she regretted it or wanted to take it back. 

Just... if she got a second chance, she could do it better. Lexa would do it better. Lexa would have a plan. She would take Clarke somewhere romantic and get down on one knee and have already written out exactly what she was going to say. She would probably have a ring.

Clarke didn't have a ring. She didn't have a plan. 

They were just sitting on the back porch, rocking gently on the porch swing as the summer sun began its descent, and there was something about the way the light tangled in the strands of her hair, sparked green fire in her eyes, made her skin glow, that made Clarke's heart swell too big for her chest. She'd meant to say, 'You're beautiful.' She'd meant to say, 'I can't imagine my life without you.' She'd meant to say, 'Let's do this again tomorrow, and the night after that, and the night after that.' 

Instead, she'd said, 'Marry me.' Which was all of those things and more. So much more.

It should have been a question. It had come out a command. And Lexa hated being told what to do. 

But maybe she hadn't heard. Maybe...

Lexa's hand found Clarke's and she laced their fingers together. Her eyes were still fixed on the horizon as she brought their joined hands to her lips. She kissed Clarke's knuckle, where a ring would be if it had been Lexa doing the asking and getting it right. 

"Okay," she said, and later, when the sun had disappeared completely and they were waiting for the first star to appear so they could make a wish, "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**12.**

The sun caught in Clarke's hair, lighting it like a halo, and Lexa didn't believe in angels, but if she did...

Her chest and throat and eyes ached, and she wouldn't cry, she'd sworn to herself she wouldn't cry, no matter what, and not just because she didn't want to end up looking like a raccoon on her wedding day. (She'd been assured the mascara was waterproof, but why take chances?) She wouldn't cry, because there was nothing to cry about. This was the happiest day of her life so far, though if they were lucky it would pale in comparison to days yet to come. 

And yet how could she not cry when she was face to face with the most beautiful woman in the world, wearing a white dress and a crown of flowers in her hair, looking at her like _she_ was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, smiling at her with her entire body, her entire _being_? How could she not shed a tear as Clarke slipped a ring onto her trembling finger? How could her breath not catch as she took Clarke's hands to do the same, and they held on to each other as they had for years and as they would for the rest of their lives? How could she hold back everything she was feeling when she could hardly name all of the emotions, much less contain them? There weren't words to express how much Clarke meant to her, or if there were, Lexa didn't know them.

But she had a lifetime to figure it out. Right now, there were only two words that mattered, and she said them in a voice that was clear and strong and did not shake: "I do."

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Spot the Wonder Sheep is a real story and a real ornament. Except my mom (who made him) tried to destroy the evidence when he broke, but my dad rescued him from the garbage and put him back together. I still have him. *g*


End file.
